non timebo mala
by Beabaseball
Summary: Bruce Wayne's ward was in third year when Lord Voldemort returned. He's not going to lose his family. Not this time. Better safe and angry with him than dead and not even able to hate him for it. Gen, Batfam. No longer a threeshot.
1. Chapter 1

**I find the lack of Batman/HP crossovers…** ** _disturbing_** **.**

 **Happy Halloween/All Hallows Eve!**

His ward, Richard Grayson, was in third year when the Dark Lord returned.

The next morning, Bruce Wayne, pureblood, walked into the ministry and erased all evidence that his ward was half-blood at best.

Dick would be upset with him, but if forced to choose between Dick's survival and his son's opinion of him? Bruce had already chosen. It was a poor thing to think, but Bruce was a true Slytherin, and Dick should have been a Hufflepuff.

At eleven years old, the boy had been trapped in his head, broiled over trying to hold onto the hope of _justice_. He argued the hat to a standstill, demanding over and over again to go to the house he'd heard always watched the shadows. The house that veered towards strength _and_ safety. The house of alliances and allies who would take him as far as he could go. The house that would teach him how to never be vulnerable again.

There were lots of ways to be a hatstall, and Dick was never one to leave his destiny in anyone's hands but his own. Dick would understand _why_ Bruce changed the records, but he would never be happy that it had happened, much less that it had happened without his consent, but this was the truth:

Bruce Wayne witnessed the last trial of the Triwizard Tournament.

He sat by his ward in the stands, comfortably relaxed, enjoying the evening before it all went sideways.

When Harry Potter burst out of the maze with a portkey in one hand and a dead body in the other, screaming about the Dark Lord's return. When a Dementor's Kiss was administered on a man without a trial. When the papers changed their Potter Rhetoric for the first time since his birth. When words like 'insane,' and 'attention-seeking,' and 'dangerous,' followed the Boy Who Lived back to wherever he was hidden away each summer, apparently without giving a single word in his own defense.

Bruce would draw his own conclusions, regardless of what the papers, gossip, and politicians said. He always had. He always would.

He concluded it was safer to be a pureblood Wayne, now more than ever before.

000

Dick may not have actually been born into the Wayne family, but there were some things that you simply learned when growing up in a pureblood household. It was easy to spot outsiders when it came to meal placement, not because of using the incorrect fork or fumbling the placemats, or even having elbows on the table, but because they would not wait for the lady of the house to eat the first bite.

There were other things as well: the proper way to behave around your elders, and lines in the sand about how to behave around those younger. The types of flowers appropriate for bouquets and the type of flowers which should only be seen in a garden or potions jar. The right times of year to give gifts, what gifts were appropriate, and how to write the perfect 'thank you,' card for every occasion (and _every_ occasion warranted them.) How to write letters which _weren't_ 'thank you,' cards. How to write Italic. How to write in Secretary hand. How to write in a mix of Secretary and Italic, and when it was most appropriate. How to write letters to someone below your station. How to write a letter to one you considered an equal. How to write letters to a superior.

Dick had long written his letters to Bruce up the center of his parchment. It had been an abrupt, cruel moment, when, without any comment, the first letter came aligned to the right. It killed Bruce to write back with his own hand aligning to the left.

By sixth year, his Slytherin son wrote letters in patterns. He gave anecdotes of what happened in classes, writing in a tone that could be read as gleeful or sullen depending on the reader's perception of intent. Mostly, the letters read like facts. His tone was formal, dates written clearly, all propriety, leading to correspondence like:

 _October 8, 1998_

 _Father_ (the 'r' slightly smudged, possibly out of spite, but looking well enough like Dick's specially cultivated band of clumsiness that only one searching for it would notice it was the only smudged word in the entire letter) _,_

 _I hope you're well. It's been a dreadful week here at Hogwarts. The weather is awful and only seems to be getting worse. There's an unnatural amount of frost and ice, so we're largely trapped within the castle until something can be arranged. It's maddening._

 _Recently, the behavior here has been worse than usual, and I don't doubt the weather is in part agitating it. This last Tuesday, when Professor Carrow was teaching Dark Arts, a Hufflepuff called Gloria Hench tried to avoid doing her assignment (to cast a stinging charm) so Professor Carrow instructed us to cease practicing on our partners, and instead, sting her. It was a notable moment in a day when overall, morale has been very low._

How he could leave room in his words to make taking upwards of fifty stinging charms sound like a minor punishment for a minor infraction, Bruce—wished he didn't know.

The letters continued on in that manner, each ending with a short list of requests. Treats, the sorts of things Dick hasn't really requested in all his years before, barring his miserable first year when _everyone_ needed something cheering, and Bruce had nearly pulled him out before the first semester had ended—but no one would question gifts being delivered to the heir-apparent of what was once a grand bloodline.

Bruce kept all the letters in a small chest by his office desk, swaddled in as many protective charms as he could manage, warding against fire, water, aging, and general maliscious intent, for one day a record would be needed—

Before locking them away, Bruce handed the list of requests off to Alfred (and each time, after a moment of hesitation, he handed off the rest of the letter, as Alfred deserved to know what was going on with their boy, regardless of how _business_ the letters felt.) The gifts were prepared. Toffees, treats, a few small chocolate cakes, extra parchment, ink, quills, bags of nonpareils and sweet-coated peanuts. They didn't risk cereal anymore, as they might have once, in case another student realized it was not simply an exotic treat from some distant wizarding community. Just muggles, manufacturing flour.

(Too much 'risk' in cereal. It sounded ridiculous, with three boxes of the stuff sitting in their pantry alongside the cow tongue, pumpkin seeds, jars of nettles, and sticks of cinnamon.)

Bruce once hoped he'd never see the day when cereal spelled out 'risk,' but Dick would be able to eat whatever he pleased once he came home for break. He wouldn't be able to go back to summer school, and his online studies in the muggle would would have to be discontinued, but he'd be whole and alive. In a world with Lord Voldemort resurrected and playing puppet government, 'whole and alive' was Bruce's bottom line.

Hidden in the package treats they sent to Dick were shrunken gifts, hidden treasures. First aid supplies. Medicines disguised and homebrewed potions. Pain dullers and antidotes. Bezoars ground into every encrusted treat. Parchment charmed with messages for his son's eyes only, bringing news of the outside world.

They didn't know if the supplies were being handed out to an inner-school resistance or primarily went to comforting his underclassmen, but the requests kept coming, and Wayne Manor kept complying. There was very little they could do to get responses—all the mail going in and out of Hogwarts was tracked and inspected. Each day that passed without outing them as blood traitors brought with it something like a distant cousin of relief. Not a sense of victory, but proof they still had some breathing room. His son was uncompromised.

They'd met the bottom line.

000

The portrait of his parents hung above the grand fireplace in the library.

The painted imitations stared into each other's eyes, always sighing and clasping their hands around each other's wrists. The portrait's occupants didn't speak often, and when they did, it was no louder than a whisper. All portraits had their personalities created by the painter's perception of their subject—paintings knew as much about themselves as their painter knew, resulting in a real impression, if not an original one.

Bruce knew it could have been much worse. The portrait above the grand fireplace spoke of quite, overwhelming love. There were so many ways it could have been worse.

The Wayne family had been labeled blood-traitors thirty years before, when Martha Wayne campaigned for the cessation of the Statute of Secrecy and Thomas advocated the sharing of medical secrets between worlds.

The family label was re-evaluated when the Waynes were murdered by one of the very muggles they sought to reach out to.

At the time, Bruce was a year too young for Hogwarts.

Grief reclaimed the family name as _Pureblood_ without intending it. Victims of muggle violence— the old shame of his parent's views was ignored by and large by the wizarding community, who focused on the murder.

Always focusing on the murder.

Always focusing on death.

(Bruce closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. Above the fireplace, his parent's portrait looked down upon him, concerned and silent.)

Bruce was Slytherin, cunning, ambitious, and above all, loyal to his own.

Just because the rest of the wizarding world has forgotten what his parents wanted didn't mean he had. His own tragedy didn't blind him from seeing the same pain in others.

On the contrary.

He had always been aware.

While the wizarding community focused on death (focused on the _scars_ ) Bruce could shift his eyes, and see the child lying in a pool of their parent's blood.

In 1981, his petition to adopt the Potter boy had been swiftly and succinctly denied.

He didn't make the same mistake with Grayson.

He asked the boy personally, and the boy said 'yes.' That was all the permission he needed.

Bruce placed the paperwork in the ministry file the next time he stopped by on casual business. The same papers he changed when he arrived that horrible, humid day four years later, when Richard was in third year and a child was dead.

A few obliviates, a few confunduses, and Richard had always been part of the Wayne bloodline: the product of an affair during Bruce's post-graduation travels, whose name of ' _Grayson'_ came from his mother, an obscure and foreign pureblood.

If no one had heard of him before his debut at Hogwarts, well, such was the reclusive and secretive manner of the Waynes. Such was the manner of affairs. It mattered very little, really. The paperwork was there, as was his pedigree, sitting in the ministry offices for as long as anyone cared to recall. There would be no dispute.

(Dick didn't speak to him for weeks. But he understood. He was Slytherin enough to convince the hat to let him into the house—but Bruce didn't want to follow that train of thought. Dick should have been a Hufflepuff, because even though he understood, that didn't make him less upset at the principal of it all.)

000

The Dark Lord didn't approach Wayne Manor personally, but an imperiused minion was not a much better substitute.

Of course, Bruce agreed to the offer.

What pureblood family would not be thrilled to regain their rightful places at the helm of the wizarding world?

He emphasized that he was not much of a fighter—no one would question that, not with his grades in school. Back then, Dark Arts had still been _Defense_ , and Bruce had not taken well to having no control over his tutors. He acted out. Was almost expelled from Hogwarts multiple times. His grades reflected it.

Half of it was how very little he'd cared. Half of it was what he'd eventually recognized as an extension of the same paranoia that told him if no one ever saw him, it would make him less of a target; if no one thought much of him, fewer people would look his way when books went missing from the forbidden section of the library. By the time he'd pulled himself together in seventh year, it was second nature to hide his proficiencies. It was hard to fight habit. He'd yet to fully defeat it.

So he sighed repeatedly that he was really not much of a fighter, but he knew a few things about management. If it pleased his Dark Lord, he'd like to have his little corner of land—the land around Wayne Manor, called Gotham Field. Surrounded by muggle civilization. Small cities. Smaller towns. His own little kingdom—and he'd like to have his own discretion in dealing with it, until such a time as his Dark Lord's conquest was complete.

It would not be much, and it was far from a final plan of action, but it would buy him time and shield both muggle and wix in Gotham Field from the worst of things, at least for a while.

Wayne Manor itself was not quite as secure.

The fidelius charm on it was old. Old enough to be spread thin, but not old enough to be renewed. It was unwise to layer multiple contradicting fidelius charms—it confused the magic, made entry uncertain, and never guaranteed exactly who or what would be able to enter at any given time as the enchantments warred for dominance. Truly, it was better to _know_ others could get in than to be blinded by hope and then taken by surprise.

When a secret keeper died, the secret passed on to those who had been 'in the know,' and with each of those subsequent deaths, the secret grew even weaker. Long hidden caverns appeared when the descendant of a secret keeper arrived and blurted out the location to the world. Treasures were dug up and graves exhumed.

Had Bruce or Alfred been the only people invited into the house before Thomas Wayne's death, there may not have been any trouble, but the reality was that they could not call the house at all secure when also factoring in immediate family of the gardener hired to clean up the hedges years before, all the guests invited to galas and political events in the Wayne ballroom, and Bruce's childhood friend Thomas Elliot, whose company he had later grown to very much regret.

Bruce's forefathers may have cared greatly about their privacy, but Martha and Thomas Wayne had not been much for keeping secrets.

(They were both much better people than he was.)

Without a powerful fidelius charm, no matter how many anti-spying and infiltration charms he placed, the Manor still felt vulnerable.

So he built a bunker.

The swift-flowing waters of local rivers had carved out a complicated cave system which stretched out for miles beneath Gotham Field and its surrounding areas. He could find no records to indicate if a fidelius charm could even be powerful enough to hide such massive formations, and in the absence of time to experiment, he did the next best thing: he blocked off a section of the cave, turning a massive underground cavern not far from Wayne Manor into a 'room.' Massive though it was, the clearly defined boundaries made it a simple thing to enchant after it had been given a name, which functioned as the address.

He told only Alfred, and wrote to Dick about _something to show you when you come home for Christmas_. He received a reply back about how _the Gryffindors are acting up again. It sounds like they're upset about something that happened to one of their Seventh years, Longbottom—_

Bruce Wayne knew Augusta Longbottom, but had only ever heard of Frank and Alice Longbottom. He closed his eyes, leaned back his head, and hoped against hope that history would not repeat itself.

000

He didn't get the chance to show Dick the cave beneath the manor, not before he showed it to someone else.

Perhaps some of the Dark Lord's did not get the memo that Bruce would be handling Gotham Field _alone_. Perhaps they were impatient for results that would never come. Perhaps they were locals. Perhaps they were outsiders who felt they'd finally run into a pureblood supporter weak enough he who wouldn't mind his authority undermined. Perhaps they hadn't paid attention to lines drawn on maps.

There were Snatchers in Gotham Field. So long as they were not sent intentionally, how they got there was of little consequence. They were in his territory.

Bruce found them by happenstance on one of his nighttime walks.

Walking was something he'd done for years since the death of his parents. On restless nights, he walked. It gave him something to do. Kept him sane. Kept him from _running_ out into the night and blasting everything in sight, or—he wasn't really sure what he'd do if he hadn't walked.

He had run, once. He'd run off at seventeen and traveled the world, reviving an old tradition, stretching his travels out over years, hoping to steady himself. It had helped, somewhat. But then he'd come home. A Dark Lord rose, and Bruce went home.

He couldn't in good conscience abandon his home to be the site of more bloodshed and murder. Not then. Not now. Not even if his connections with the rest of the wizarding world, much less any _resistance movements,_ were shaky at best. But it wasn't a matter of connections. It was a matter of looking out for one's own.

So he walked at night.

And he heard screams.

The power for the disillusionment charm was already half summoned before his wand was all the way out. Disillusionment was not as perfect a form of hiding as an invisibility cloak, but he preferred it for the greater mobility and, especially, because it could not be accio'd away. Under the mask of night, to blend was to be invisible.

He raced down three blocks of the neighborhood before finding the source of the scream.

Snatchers were known for going after dissidents or muggleborns. Not muggles. They didn't get rewards for muggles. But no one protected muggles, and no one became a Snatcher out of kindness in their heart.

Five Snatchers ran down the street, not seeing Bruce in the slightest and heading right for his position. They laughed, tossing spells carelessly at a muggle teenager. The situation took a moment to assess. The boy ran quickly and was dodging at least some of the spells under his own power, but if any of the Snatchers actually aimed and got lucky—

"Here boy, here! Heel, boy!" One called, shooting off a spell, red and sharp. It left a dark smudge where the muggle's ankle had been a moment before.

Another snatcher whistled, sending something curving and blue whizzing towards the muggle's head. The muggle jerked left, the spell just missing his ear. "Aw, come on; I had that one!"

Too soon, it happened. The snatcher in front took the time to steady their aim and _think_ through their spell before letting it fly. The muggle boy twisted to dodge in a way that would have worked, only to have the arc of light curve and slam heavy into his thigh. He crumbled with another shout.

 _Wix live in this area_ , Bruce thought, looking around. Some lights were turned on in the nearby houses, but no faces looked out the windows. No wands poked through curtains. _Damnit, are they all that scared?_

Of course they were. Of course they were scared. Scared of Voldemort and what he might do if he discovered they were muggle sympathizers. If they _were_ muggle sympathizers.

 _If you're a muggle sympathizer, act like it_ , he thought, because no matter how frightened the wix of the community were, the boy lying on the ground in a leg-lock jinx had so much more reason to fear.

The teen faceplanted, groaned, and pushed himself back up a moment later. He hadn't even taken a moment to be stunned, immediately trying to scramble onto his feet. He stopped only after discovering he couldn't separate his legs. He twisted onto his back and started clawing at his pants, panting and grunting. Then, apparently thinking without pause, he declared it a losing fight and started dragging himself away from the Snatchers by his hands.

"Aw," one of the Snatchers said, "Ain't he just the cutest?"

"You touch me and I'll bite your fucking face off," the muggle boy said, still trying to put distance between them. Bruce raised his wand.

"You know," another Snatcher said, "I've always wanted a pet."

"Not this one," said a third, cooing. "I think he's rabid. Look at those l'il teeth."

Bruce fired.

The ones who spoke were the first to fall. The others wasted time in their panic, searching for the assailant with their eyes rather than trusting their instincts or thinking through where the assault came from. By the time Bruce apparated was behind them, it was far too late.

One by one, the snatchers fell. They would be unconscious for several hours, long enough for Bruce to figure out what to do with them—though at that moment, he was leaning heavily towards snapping all of their wands and leaving them in the bottom of a ravine.

Though perhaps the middle of a muggle London police office would be a better choice. Worst came to worst, those muggles could defend themselves.

First, though, he had to take care of something more important.

There were eyes at the windows, now. Faces peering out through doors. _Too late to matter_. Bruce cast two spells, both for privacy, before removing the disillusionment charm and approaching the muggle boy—now the only person who would be able to see him, as long as he stayed within the six meter radius the look-away spells specified.

Not that the teen would go far with that leg-lock jinx still on him. But he was giving it a valiant try.

He jerked away when Bruce approached, eyes darting between his wand and the five Snatchers who lay not far away from him.

"Who—?" he gasped it out, " _What?_ "

"It's okay now," Bruce said, doing his best to sound calm. He may have sounded monotone. Dick always said he was terrible at expressing, but still, he tried. He raised both hands to show no ill intent, even though one still had his wand in his right hand, pinched between his thumb and pointer finger. Despite his wand, the muggle boy seemed to relax at the gesture. "I'm not here to hurt you, I'm just going to release your legs and make sure you're all right."

"What was that?" the boy said, no longer scrambling backwards. He rolled onto his back, propping himself up with his elbows. "How—what were those _lights_?"

"Magic," Bruce said, close enough to the boy to kneel down to his level. If explanations kept him calm, then he could explain and just wait until he escorted the teen home safely before obliviating him. "Before you protest, try and think if there's any other explanation for what you've just seen. Now just stay still a moment."

Bruce lowered his wand to point at the boy's legs and spoke the counter-curse aloud. The boy's legs, once held rigid, instantly relaxed. Bruce heard him take in a deep breath.

"Okay," he said in a smaller voice. "Okay, wow. All right, then. Fuck."

"Are you hurt?"

"A little freaked out," the boy said, eyes wide. He stared down at his legs.

"Physically?"

The boy's gaze shifted. He looked up at Bruce for a long second before holding up his palms. Shallow cuts and scrapes covered them from where he'd tried to drag himself along the ground. Flecks of dirt and small rocks were visible in them.

Bruce nodded and lifted his wand again. He wasn't the best healer, but this? This he could do. Once again, he made sure to speak the spells aloud for the boy and give him some warning before the magic took effect. No glow, no flicks, just an itching sensation and skin slowly knitting back together, expelling any foreign matter in the process. Once he was done, the skin of the boy's hands were smooth and unmarred as if they'd had weeks to heal.

The boy stared at his hands and brushed his fingers along each palm before pressing his hands up to his face and against his cheeks to feel them both at once. "That is so _weird_."

Bruce tried to smile. It may have come out flat, but at least the boy was all right. "All right, now, to get you home. Where do you live?"

Midway through reveling in his newly patched skin, the boy froze and looked up, if possible, more wide-eyed than he'd already been.

"…around," he said.

"I promise, I just want to make sure you get home safely," Bruce said, raising his hands again to placate.

The boy hesitated, eyes flicking to the left ( _a tell? Or he's thinking_ ) before finally saying, "That might be sort of complicated."

There was a strange little twist in Bruce's stomach as he considered the possibilities, but he took in the boy's attire—oversized clothes, patchy and torn. Far too light for so late in October. Not recently washed. Homeless. "Is there some place you stay that's safe?"

The boy appeared to bite the inside of his cheek and frowned. "I go where I can get. Look, I'll be fine, thanks for your help with those… _whoevers_ , but I don't need pity."

"Do you have any family at all? Even if they live out of the area, if you want, I can get you to them." Bruce may have been desperate.

The look on the boy's face told him enough.

There were things they said about Slytherins. Things that in-house were comforting and out-of-house sounded like condemnations. Things like 'Slytherins only look after their own.'

And Bruce had decided that all inhabitants of Gotham Field were his own, whether they knew him or not. Orphans, though. Orphans had been part of his own for even longer.

Bruce looked over the boy again. He was recovering rapidly from his ordeal, but he was gaunt. Wide-eyed and wary, but he no longer appeared at all frightened. His features suggested potential Irish ancestry. Dark hair, bright eyes. He looked so very much like the son Bruce could not currently protect; it sent another twist into his stomach just _thinking_ of abandoning this boy to the streets with his memory wiped and muggle-haters still on the loose—especially when Bruce could prevent that. Not when he could bring the boy up to the manor, could give him a hot meal and a safe place to sleep at night.

Really, there was no question. Not once he really thought about it.

"All right, chum," Bruce said, putting his wand away and settling himself down in front of the boy. "I have an offer for you, and you're welcome to refuse, and I'll leave you alone—but if you say yes, you have to be able to keep a secret. Will you hear me out?"

A moment passed, and the muggle boy nodded.

His name was Jason.

000


	2. Chapter 2

Initially, Bruce planned to return Jason to the muggle world as soon as possible. He knew that muggles had a system in place to accommodate missing and misplaced members of their society, but he had yet to brush up against it, and getting information on how to contact that system and ensure Jason's safety within it took time.

Meanwhile, Jason seemed content to eat, rest, and explore the mansion. Unfortunately, he also seemed eager to pick up every single vaguely dangerous artifact he came across.

Need to find Jason? No need for magic. Just follow the shrieking of sentient library books and the sooty trail left behind from a spherical token with a tendency to ignite when disturbed.

At least the paintings liked him. They kept comparing him to Dick in their rare, private whispers.

After the long, bitter conversation explaining what a muggle was and the by-definition impossibilities that came along with being one, Jason took to the reveal of the magical world like a bird being let out of a cage for the first time. Cautious, alert, and then throwing himself into it all at once.

He chattered constantly, asking questions and commandeering a corner of the library to build himself a small fortress of magical books. He sat with breathless anticipation on the floor of the kitchen, legs crossed beneath him, watching the pots and pans and ingredients soar above his head as Alfred magically prepared each meal. He volunteered to feed and care for the owls in their perch and other magical animals that took refuge around the back of the manor in the winter months, mistaking stray kneazles for cats and having to be dissuaded from hauling out heating pads for a wild and very disgruntled fire salamander that lived out by the pond behind the garden shed.

The inevitable memory charm would be more difficult and more disorienting the longer this went on, but for the moment, indulgence kept the boy happy and safe.

('Indulgence,' he told himself, as Jason adapted Blackjack to be played with Exploding Snap cards. Alfred dealt them several rounds after dinner, before patrol, and Bruce remembered laughing.)

He introduced Jason to the Cave on the third day. Watched the awe on Jason's face as the family's grandfather clock appeared to grow apart from the wall to reveal a doorway. Instructed him to take refuge within immediately, should he have any reason to suspect danger.

"Like those guys from town," Jason said, looking up at him with sharp green eyes. "The snatchers, right?'

"Yeah," Bruce said, watching the entrance to his bunker, one hand on Jason's shoulder. "With any luck, I won't draw much attention from their masters, but it is always best to assume the worst. If I haven't explicitly told you someone is permitted to be in the manor, assume they only intend to harm you, and hide here immediately."

"And everyone from town?" Jason said, still watching him. "What about them? They don't even know they're s'posed to be in danger."

Bruce had little he could say to that but, "I'm trying to keep this area safe. Right now, the best way I can do that is pretending to be one of them."

"I want to help," Jason said, turning so his whole body was facing Bruce, his shoulders squared. "There's a war over _us_ —we should know about it!"

Bruce felt a smile crack over his face. Firecracker kid. "Maybe one day the worlds will merge. But not right now. And running around shouting it in the streets will only get you carted off for disturbing the peace, or paint a huge target on you and everyone you tell. So don't even think about it. I'll do what I can, but right now, exposing magic to the world will only make Gotham Field the biggest target of all. In a worst-case scenario, it may even start a _third_ war on top of this whole mess."

"A third war," Jason said, raising his eyebrows. "Okay, fine. Maybe telling the folk with militaries that there's genocidal magicians hidden under their noses isn't the best idea right now, 'specially if they can't tell the good and bad guys apart, but what's the _second_ war?"

Much to Jason's annoyance, Bruce responded, "This one."

He took other precautions. Redoubled his protective charms on the manor. He didn't tell Jason the Dark Lord's name, so the taboo had no chance of being invoked—not even accidentally. He wrote to Dick about _a houseguest. I think you would like him, though with any luck, he'll be on his way home by break._

Dick responded, _Adriana (who I have mentioned to you before, a third year Slytherin) was released from the dungeons this evening. I took her to Madam Pomfrey to get the bruises and chain marks erased, as she would have been too sore to sit in classes tomorrow and could scarcely hold a quill steady enough to dip in ink. As we waited I asked her about the pet rabbit she sent home in September when she worried Hogwart's current climate would cause him harm; she misses him very much but speaking of him seemed to relax—_

Bruce went out on walks several more times in the night and informed all Snatchers in the area to report directly to him, especially if they had any information regarding the half-invisible figure stunning them silently in the night. The phantom that dropped them off, stripped of all magical artifacts, in distant muggle law enforcement offices, where a handful of half-bloods, muggleborns, and squibs lying low among the police officers took measures to protect their muggle coworkers.

If ever a Snatcher escaped the hold, they tended to return to Bruce directly, meaning to inform him of being attacked in his area.

While Jason hid in the cave, Bruce held the Snatcher in the front hall, thanked them very politely, and paid them for their pains. Alfred brought in tea while Bruce promised he was making efforts to find the muggle-lover and ensure they was properly punished, going so far as to place a bounty on the head of the vigilante. He mentioned in passing that if the Snatcher wanted to move on to elsewhere, they would not be judged, considering their terrible ordeal. Some did, but not most. Fair enough. He found different, more high-security muggle holding areas to leave them at, the second time around.

October ended. November bled on. Jason continued trying to feed the fire salamander behind the garden shed, and Dick kept writing letters, swearing he was still alive and well.

000

It was December, winter break, and Jason was not yet gone.

Bruce blamed his own selfishness. He knew Jason would be better off elsewhere, with other muggles, as far from the strife of Britain's wizarding world as he could get—but Bruce was selfish, and he knew it.

He could have sent Jason away months ago. Sent him off to a boarding school abroad, if necessary. Sent him to the muggle's 'child protective services,' as was the original plan.

Hell, Bruce could have given him several thousand galleons' worth in muggle currency, bought him a travel pass, and sent him on his merry way.

But it was winter break, and Jason was in the manor, reading in a chair by the library's grand fireplace while Bruce apparated onto the train platform and waited for Dick to emerge.

This year, the hoard of green robes exiting the train was smaller than Bruce had come to expect. A moment later he realized there were fewer of _all_ the colors than he'd come to expect. His stomach twisted with the thought that only half-blood and pureblood students remained at Hogwarts. There had been more muggleborns than he'd thought.  
(There was a tangent connected to that thought, immediately trying to decide _where_ all those muggleborn students had gone, and he cut it off and filed it away for another time. Not anything he could do about it, now. Too late. He'd picked his stance and if he wavered now, it would all collapse around him. Prioritize. Gotham and family, first.)

Despite the lack of muggleborns, there were still significant numbers of students pouring out of the compartments, though nothing to how many students there been in Bruce's day. The number of students had been low for years, and he had accepted that. Casualties of Voldemort's last reign of terror left the number of Hogwarts attendees at record lows for the last decade and a half, and now—

(Merlin. What would _this_ war do to their world?)

Dick trotted out after a fashion, and the moment they caught sight of each other, he bounded forward.

Bruce hailed him as he came, smile thin but as best as he could manage. Though Dick had nearly grown tall enough to look Bruce in the eye, he placed a hand on Dick's shoulder when he was close enough and gave a squeeze, as he had when the boy was younger.

It was not much of a show of affection, (the Malfoys were not on the platform this year, but if they were, he knew Narcissa would have been hugging her boy by now. Draco was one year older than Dick. Draco had advised Dick towards arithmancy at the end of second year. Had Draco killed, yet?) but any thought of trying to make up for his silent welcome fled as he realized Dick had a shadow.

"Father," Dick said, in the clipped way he did, because he hated the word, but the last four years meant he didn't having any better, "may I introduce Damian? He's Talia al Ghul's son. It's his first year."

Cold ice filled his gut. Colder than the December air around them.

An al Ghul. Joy.

Bruce turned to look at the boy and smiled down at him, blithe.

Damian al Ghul had the looks of a harpy. Pointed faced. Sharp eyes. A scowl that tried _very_ hard to be his most prominent feature. Yes, quite like a harpy.

He was short, stocky, and looked all-in-all rather unlike his mother, though it was very possible he took after his father. Whoever that may have been.

If Bruce had to grow up and live with Ra's al Ghul after becoming of age, he may well have had a kid out of wedlock, too—admittedly, it would have helped his story of Dick's ancestry.

As it was, aside from traveling the world, his mid-twenties rebellion consisted mostly of illegal dueling tournaments and shouldering perhaps a smidge too closely with the Dark Arts—which _may_ have been part of the reason the Wayne family was once again considered acceptable for Death Eaters and blood supremacists to proposition, though he wasn't about to say for certain. As long as it kept Dick safe, he would only examine the origins of his reputation to replicate them, not to question.

Talia, though. The Talia he'd first met in Hogwarts was already so steeped in the Dark Arts, Bruce wouldn't have been surprised if her father forced an unbreakable vow as a child to keep her bound to him.

(They'd been close, once. In sixth year, Talia might've been one of the few people Bruce would have ever considered calling a friend. It hadn't been enough to survive through Voldemort's first rise while Bruce was following the wind, but it was enough to try and reestablish contact for a short while once he'd returned. Half a decade of trying to pry her from her father's grasp, and it had never been the same again.)

"Damian, wonderful to meet you," Bruce said, trying to make the fake smile on his face something that people who _weren't_ Dick would be fooled by. He offered out his hand to the small boy. "Bruce Wayne."

"I know who you are," Damian said, not shaking his hand.

"I said I'd wait with him until his mother arrived," Dick said.

"Did something come up? She's usually so punctual," Bruce said, addressing the space in between both boys.

"She is occupied with arranging the annual Yuletide Celebration," Damian said, his pointed chin in the air. "Which I have been instructed to personally invite you to."

With a flick of his wrist, he produced a cream colored envelope from the folds of his dark cloak and presented it to Bruce with all the air of importance an eleven year old could.

Dick looked alarmed. "I didn't know about that. B, I didn't know about this, promise. Where did you even get that? Have you been holding onto it since _September?_ "

"As usual, your powers of observation are abysmal," said Damian. He twitched the hand holding the envelope once more. "Well?"

"Right, sorry," Bruce said, and took the envelope from him, running a thumb over the al Ghul crest, molded into green wax. "We're very honored to be invited. Aren't we, Dickie?"

"Right," Dick said, nodding quickly and glancing towards Damian. "It'll be fun to see you again before school."

Bruce wasn't so sure about that, but nodded along with his boy and tucked the envelope into his own pouch of holding. "Now, your mother _is_ coming, isn't she?"

000

Dick crumbled the moment the front door of the manor closed behind him.

It began as sagging. His shoulders slumped. His knees bent more than usual. Then, his head hung, and it was all downhill from there.

"Steady, chum," Bruce said, wrapping an arm around his boy's shoulders. "Let's get you into a chair, all right? I'm sure Alfred's got something wonderful for dinner. Then you can rest."

Dick nodded, eyes closed, and let Bruce lead him to the dining room. The tall windows had their curtains drawn closed, and the only light was soft, coming from the glass chandeliers flickering above them. Wordlessly, Bruce pulled a wooden high-backed chair from the table and transformed it into a plush armchair. Dick sank into it, boneless, his eyes closed.

"Are you hurt?" Bruce asked.

"Tired," Dick said, hardly moving. "Just tired."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Bruce."

(It was nice to hear his name again. It was nice to hear anything from Dick other than the clipped, imposed title of 'father.')

The boy was newly sixteen, having turned the year on the first of December. He hadn't yet grown into his limbs all the way, but his shoulders seemed undeniably broader than they had when he'd departed three months ago. His hair needed cutting. There were faint bags under his eyes. His cheekbones were jutting more than ever, the last of his childhood softness worn away by time.

Bruce sat on the thick arm of the chair and gathered his boy against himself, feeling the twiney arms and bones shiver under his hand.

"Talk," Bruce said. He wouldn't have much to say in response, he never did, but, "It's helped you before. Talking."

Dick drew a shaky breath and buried his face into Bruce's shoulder, his sharp chin jutting and his nose stabbing, and his shivering not subsiding in the least. Bruce pulled an arm back long enough to retrieve his wand and flick a series of silent privacy wards around them, his face keeping blank and his mind carefully occlumens-blank.

It was muffled, and gasping, and broken, but Bruce listened, and his son told him about Hogwarts.

000

 **Lmao, for all of five minutes I convinced myself this would be a threeshot. Not gonna be any extra longer for having more chapters, but I'll be able to make more aesthetically pleasing breaks**

 **if there are any scenes you want to see, comment with them and I'll see about putting them in! the timeline is pretty well set, but if there's an idea that really strikes true but I can't fit it in, I may just write it out anyway and post as a separate story and turn this into an AO3 series**

 **psa: Joker will NOT be killing Jason in this fic, thank you, that is all**


	3. Chapter 3

_Dick drew a shaky breath and buried his face into Bruce's shoulder, his sharp chin jutting and his nose stabbing, and his shivering not subsiding in the least. Bruce pulled an arm back long enough to retrieve his wand and flick a series of silent privacy wards around them, his face stoic and his mind carefully occlumens-blank._

 _It was muffled, and gasping, and broken, but Bruce listened, and his son told him about Hogwarts._

000

Dick didn't notice Jason right away, which said more about his state than anything else Bruce could have tried to put into words.

Bruce saw Jason quickly enough—hovering just out of the doorframe, cautious and curious, but trying to be respectful. He hung far enough back that the privacy wards hadn't expelled him.

* * *

The spells Bruce cast were the sort of privacy wards used in restaurant booths; they muzzled sound and blurred meaning, but they weren't look-away charms. They weren't intended for invisibility, and it was difficult to not figure _some_ meaning into a man curled in on himself, shoulders hitching and one hand snarled into another's cloak.

Jason shrank, eyes averted, as Dick wore himself down. Bruce conjured up a washcloth and wetted it. He levitated it at the end of his wand, offering it to his eldest ward by saying, "For your face."

Dick took the cloth, wiping his now red and puffy eyes, cleaning and composing himself within minutes. His back straightened, his hair was unmussed and his robes, rightened. Eyes blinked back to brightness. He quirked a smile. _I'm fine._ Unflinching eye contact. Only then did Bruce lower the privacy wards and call attention to the figure at the edge of their vision.

"I told you there was someone staying with us," was what he said as he moved away from the armrest he'd been using as a seat. Moving away from the conversation. Moving away from the last half hour that they were all already pretending never happened.

"Yeah," said Dick, cracks in his voice gone. He turned, his bangs flicking out with the movement. He needed a trim. He flicked his hair once more, intentionally, removing it from his eyes. "You mentioned. So, this is them?"

Jason's back straightened. He gave up any pretense of hiding and glanced at Bruce once before entering the room. Entering even before Bruce actually told him _,_ "Come in."

Jason circled wide around Dick, coming to stand next to Bruce, not quite sizing Dick up but not exactly succeeding at looking casually, either. Bruce put a hand on his shoulder once he was close, steadying him. Maybe holding him back. But Dick was smiling, warm and open, and sometimes that was enough to set people on edge if they weren't expecting it.

"Dick, this is Jason, I met him around Halloween. He's a muggle. Jason, this is Dick."

"He's a _muggle_?"

It came out before there was even a chance for a 'how do you do,' or 'nice to meet you.' Almost before Bruce had even finished talking.

It could have gone better.

Jason's whole body tensed. He crossed his arms, lost his posture, and began favoring one leg, eyebrow raised, and pretense of being smaller or trying to be respectful out the window _._ "Yeah. That's not gonna be a problem, is it?"

It could have gone better, because Dick didn't usually bar his teeth. Didn't usually rise to obvious bait. _I taught you better than that_. But thank Merlin, at least he didn't direct that look towards Jason for more than a moment.

Dick rounded on Bruce without a thought, his shoulders snapping into place and his back ramrod straight, hand by his wand. "You brought a muggleinto this?"

"Snatchers were after him," Bruce said, unmoving, and trying to find the voice that worked relatively well that night, weeks ago, when Jason had been soothed. He hadn't used any similar voice on Dick in such a long time, it nearly escaped him. Dick hadn't always approved of his choices before, but he always _understood_ , almost instinctively. "He had nowhere to go. I'll give you the details in private, but Dick, trust me—"

"—In private?" Dick snapped, voice rising. "Bruce, this is _too far—_ "

The chandelier exploded.

Jason was the only one who shouted. Bruce was clear of the debris with two steps back, shoving Jason behind him. Dick was up and skidding out of the chair a moment later, arm raised to cover his head.

It was over quickly.

The ringing of glass and crystal hitting the floor. The echo of the initial crack. Both faded after a few moments, leaving only a heavy silence and the sound of unstable breathing. One fallen shard cut deeply into the transmuted armchair Dick had occupied, its feather stuffing bubbling out of the gash.

Wordless, Bruce slid his wand out of its holder and flicked. The debris fell upwards much more slowly than it descended. This time, the motion reminded him of a slow, confused rain. Not of pearls. One sweeping turn later, the chair's rip stitched itself together, the fabric and stuffing transfiguring itself back into wood.

Jason, hunched up behind Bruce, said nothing. Not of any of it. Dick looked on with a different sort of silence, his hands on his knees and his cloak rumpled again. He opened his mouth once, as if to say something, but couldn't quite seem to get it out.

Bruce would not be the first to speak. Not out of spite. But Merlin, he just didn't know what to say.

"Sorry," Dick said, finally. Mechanically. "I think I need to go lay down a while. I'll be better in the morning."

There were too many things Bruce could say, now. Most of them began with, 'no.' Too much risk in 'no.' He chose a happy medium. "Your dinner—"

"—can I have it in my room, Bruce?" Dick said, raising a hand to his forehead and giving a weak, toothy smile. "I'm really not feeling so well. You should make a note that we may want to look into the long-term effects of frequent bezoar ingestion. It's probably just a cold, though. I'll just have a pepperup and rest a bit and be fine tomorrow. Sorry for bothering you."

There were lots of things Bruce should have said to that. None of them would've stopped Dick from turning on his heel and walking up the grand stair in the front hall up to the second floor where his room was. A room that had been his since he was just a boy. A room untouched since September.

Bruce must have blinked, because one moment Dick was there, and the next, he was gone, and Bruce was left alone with Jason in the dining room.

Jason took a few hesitant steps forward until he stood beside Bruce once more.

His words said, "Did I say something?" with a twitch of amusement, but his hunched shoulders and steady tone said, _guilt, guilt, guilt—_

"No," Bruce said, because there was an answer which would soothe Dick and an answer which would soothe Jason, and either answer would upset the opposite party. Proximity made the choice for him. "You did nothing wrong. He's had a rough few months. He'll be better in the morning."

Jason didn't look so certain, twisting the toe of his shoe into the dining room's floor and glancing up at the chandelier. Bruce sighed and found that while he couldn't will his shoulders down, he could roll them back and relieve at least a little of the tension now living in his jaw. "Come on, now. We'll ask Alfred to serve Dick in his room, but that doesn't mean _we_ have to wait."

With that, he gestured for Jason to follow him, and waited just long enough to make sure the boy would (even shuffling, edging in a wide circle around the dining table, and by extension the chandelier, as he did so) before leading the way to the kitchens and sitting down at the much smaller, much more personal table that lived there, Jason across from him, and Alfred quietly pulling a sheet of cinnamon buns out of the oven.

000

Dick was, admittedly, much more sociable in the morning. He slunk downstairs when the sun rose, swaddled in a blanket, hair uncombed, and eyes caked with sleep.

Bruce found him on his third bowl of cereal, quietly chewing through a newly opened box—Jason had eaten through at least one of the older boxes of cereal since coming to the mansion in October. If Dick noticed, he didn't mention it.

The silence between them as Bruce sat down was personable. Tension was present, but negligible, in the face of his son being home, and whole, and alive. It was enough to quiet any lingering concern over the last night's accidental magic and breakdown. Not silence the concern. But quiet.

He left Dick to his third serving of breakfast after a smaller one of his own, but heard later from Alfred that several minutes after his departure, Jason had emerged from his room.

"Sorry," Dick had said, looking up from under dark bangs, eyes still only partly opened. "About last night. I wasn't really adjusting well."

Jason sat on the seat across from him. Pulled the box of cereal over. Dick pushed the milk towards him a moment later, a small, frail smile passing between them. "Yeah, whatever, it's no big deal. But seriously? Adjusting? That's your exuse?"

"Spent the semester watching my classmates tortured over muggles," Dick said with the same shrug and 'what can you do?' tone that permeated his letters home. He looked right and left, then above, towards the lighting fixtures. It was not the same chandelier that had shattered the night before, but it served the gesture all the same. Jason followed his gaze. "It's weird, being home."

"Why don't you leave?" Jason said, pouring milk into his bowl. "I mean. Why would you _stay_ at school if things are as bad as all that?"

"Well, they'd follow me home and ask what's got me so offended." Dick smiled and spoke like he was joking. "But, also, I can do some good there. That's most of it, really. Bruce would find an excuse to cover my ass if I did want to leave, but—I can't just leave those kids there. I only came back this break because Bruce wanted to show me something. And because of you."

Jason blinked owlishly. "Me?"

And Dick nodded, not looking at him. He took another bite of cereal, finishing his third bowl. "You."

000

Bruce showed Dick the cave that afternoon. The safehouse.

"How long do you think this war's going to last, Bruce?" Dick asked, eyes not leaving the door apparently concealed by a clock.

"What do you think?" Bruce asked.

"I think you've made a bunker," said Dick, eyes forward, face unchanged. "And I'm not really sure if I like what that implies."

But he didn't object, and helped Alfred organize and plan for dozens more treats and holiday candies to be made over the course of the break, laced with healing draughts and painkilling solution, to be smuggled back into Hogwarts as gifts, come January.

Then, when they'd finished comparing notes and deciding on the most useful and most urgent contraband, Dick stayed in the kitchen with Alfred and helped brew and can potions for long-term storage, while Bruce hovered finished potions in groups and levitated them into the Cave, where Jason spent the day sat cross-legged on the dirt with a book, abandoned, beside him.

000

"Are you okay?"

Bruce wasn't sure what to do about the tension between them. Even setting aside a mutual affection for physical sports, words, and magical animals, combined with Dick's usually jovial personality and Jason's curiosity and easy-come excitement, he'd expected them to bond quickly, and yet—

And yet, Jason's half-snide question in the library, hip cocked against one of the bookcases and arms across his chest, was possibly the first relatively concerned word between them.

It was fortunate that Dick's temper—'explosive,' Alfred had called it, without a hint of irony—had apparently been worn down, to the point where all he seemed willing to do at the question was heave out a sigh, slid the book he'd opened back on the shelf, and say, "I'm fine. I'm just tired."

"I'll say," Jason said, eyes averted. "You look terrible."

Dick's face fell flat. Exasperated. Maybe irritated. Cold enough that he fell back on the punctilious grammar that he'd erred towards since returning from Hogwarts. "You'll have to excuse me. I haven't been sleeping well."

But Jason didn't know the difference. Didn't know the Dick who used to splice words for fun. Whose preferred syntax was as easy and natural as any supposed pureblood's could be. That was the thing about Jason. He'd grown up far from the magical world. He knew he didn't know, and at some point, he didn't seem to care.

So Jason raised his eyebrows, flared a bit, and said, "What, are you telling me sleeping potions are bullshit, too?"

Dick closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and let out a long breath of air. He relaxed his shoulders down, apparently pretending he didn't see Jason warily glance up to be sure he wasn't beneath anything that may fall. "Sleeping potions take time to make. You have to gather and prepare the ingredients, not to mention heating the cauldron and cleanup. Even if my dorm _is_ under the lake, I promise you, the professors do not like us starting fires in our rooms, much less having to explain _why_ I constantly need sleeping potions. I'm not going to get dependant on them, not even here. "

Jason's eyebrows furrowed back down, though his arms remained crossed and the confused frown was still on his face. "What, you can't have Alfred deliver them to you all wrapped up in chocolate?"

And maybe what was in his voice was bitterness. It could have been spite. _I liked it here; I heard what you said about me; everything went to shit when you came home_. But if they kept arguing technicalities, nothing would ever come of it. Not even blows. And that was a good enough reason to stick to the technical. A good enough reason for Dick to take another deep breath and try to stop gritting his teeth.

"They expire quickly. An expired sleeping draught can be deadly. We haven't been able to make them take to baked goods effectively, so I'd have to smuggle them in vials, which are pretty easy to search for, and have to explain why I wanted them in the first place. And even if I _did_ smuggle some in with me when I go back to school, there are a lot of other people who'd need them more than I do."

And Jason, whose concept of magic had never been diluted with rules, snorted and said, "What, you can't smuggle them in tea bags?" just as Alfred stepped through the door of the library and said, "Ah, excuse me, Master Dick. I was searching for your father. There are some guests at the door requesting to speak with him."

Dick rubbed his face and smiled, sliding into form as Jason raced for the hidden door and slipped into the bunker without another word. "Thanks, Alfred. You keep looking for him, I'll keep them entertained in the meantime."

000

It was the first snow day of the year when Snatchers came to the manor, trailing in slush and mud in their wake. The first time Dick had been there to greet them. He knew the spiel, knew the words to say and the condolences to give, and the wonderful smile to dazzle them with.

They came in pairs, Snatchers did. They came in pairs, or in hoards, but rarely single or in trios. It was still uncommon to bring a whole hoard within the manor walls, despite the space being more than adequate—simply, most snatchers preferred to be sitting in a bar, drinking and pouring over wanted posters, rather than making the long trek out to Wayne Manor to talk with the empty-headed pureblood family who couldn't even bother to get their hands dirty. This group of Snatchers? Came in threes.

Dick could appreciate the their particular sense of fashion, even if everything else about Snatchers in general made his stomach turn. His stomach hadn't been very sturdy lately, anyway. Or maybe extremely sturdy, and there was just a lot around him to make it upset.

They were wrapped in scarves and long coats, all bright colors. One had a vibrant, royal purple fleece with lime green lining. It had an oddly muggle look too it—straight lines, rather than organic curves, and the sort of turn along the collar which was uncommon among wizarding robes. Another Snatcher favored crimson, and stood towards the center of the group, looking a little self-conscious and a little excited. The third matched the second, favoring a more somber black for his robes with thin marks along the sleeves, but the bright red of his scarf tied him into being a matched set, even though the crimson woman clearly favored Purple Coat in her body language, in her sideways glances.

Purple coat wasn't paying much attention to anyone, though. He walked around the hall so wide-eyed and distractedly that he didn't even stop when Dick comes down the entryway staircase, smiling and welcoming them, apologizing for Bruce's tardiness.

"It's a rather large house and he tends to wander if he's not kept entertained," Dick said, spreading his hands as he reached the entryway floor. "It takes a while to find him sometimes."

"House elves can't find him?" the man in black said. Very blandly. It was so bland it almost looped back into amusement.

"No house elves," Dick said, cocking his head. "Not anymore. Too… simple. We much prefer the company of our fellow witches and wizards. Much more reliable."

It took a special kind of pureblood to claim to be above hiring house-elves. And Dick was, in that moment, and for the last three years, exactly that sort of pureblood. Bruce would be proud.

(Damnit, Bruce.)

The woman in red looked aghast, pouting some, her blond hair whipping around. "Ah! No house elves? I was hoping to see one. I've heard they're so cute."

Dick cocked his head to the other side, carefully considering that. "We still have the head-mounts of our former elves, if you would be interested in seeing those, Ms...?"

"Quinn," she said, sticking out her hand to shake. Dick shook, smiling. "Harley Quinn."

"It's wonderful to meet you, Ms. Quinn," he pulled away. "Can I offer you anything while you're here? There's a sitting room just down the hall we can all settle in while we talk."

Quinn was already geared up to follow when the man in black cleared his throat and said, "We aren't here to talk to children."

And the man in purple said, without turning towards them, "Oh, put a sock in it, Vicky."

The man in black—Vicky?—shot the purple man a horrible look, but turned back to Dick with the tightest, most thinly controlled smile he'd ever seen in his life. "We just came by to ask a few questions about the muggle-lover."

Dick smiled back, just a touch sharp, just a touch amused. "No worries. We're very pleased you're so dedicated. You've had an—" heavy footsteps behind him on the stairs; Alfred had found Bruce, "—unfortunate meeting with them, I assume?"

"Oh, no no no no no," the man in the purple coat said, turning for the first time, his gaze missing Dick entirely and landing solidly on Bruce as he approached. It was the first good look Dick had at the man's face. Bright red lips, chapped from the cold. A matching pair of long, thin scars on his cheeks, pulling his face tight. Cheekbones like knives. Eyes bright like stars. "We just wanted to learn a bit more about him before game night."

"You plan to seek him out, then?" Bruce said, placing a hand on Dick's shoulder, entering the conversation smoothly. Vicky twitched, apparently not having noticed his descent on the stairs. The woman in crimson was harder to read; she just turned towards the purple man, smiled, and spoke to him as if he hadn't been present for anything before he'd initially spoken.

"Mr. J, they said we could sit in the parlor while we talked; Mr. J, let's do that, yeah? It's so cold outside and I wanna see the elves," she said, all pep and fire

Behind him, hand still on his shoulder, Dick heard Bruce tell Alfred to arrange for tea. Dick just smiled blandly at their guests, feeling moderately offended for birds as Mr. Jay watched back. Maybe he _hadn't_ been really present until shortly before Bruce's arrival. Maybe he'd been heavily zoned out.

Dick really didn't like the implications of a Snatcher who was that comfortable zoning out in the house of an avowed Dark Lord-aligned household, but perhaps he was misreading that. It could mean Mr. Jay was simply starting in on the fire whiskey a little early in the day, or hadn't slept well the night before (a theory the deep-set of his eyes would support), or perhaps, he was simply a careless Snatcher and would be easy for Gotham Field's nighttime defender to ensnare.

"I'll take care of this, Dickie," Bruce said, smiling and waving him off as Dick made to follow the group towards the nearest parlor. "It'll be boring to you, anyway. Go finish your homework; I'll send Alfred to fetch you if I need you for anything, alrighty, kiddo?"

Dick smiled, demure, and did one more tilt of his head. "Of course, Father." To the Snatchers, "Excuse me, then. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He did a half-bow towards Bruce before exiting the room.

Alfred was in the kitchens, steeping tea and setting a tray of nutty scones and almond cake on a platter. Four tiny plates, a stack of napkins, a jug of cream, sugar tongs, and a bowl of broken bits of sugarloaf. Alfred looked up at Dick when he entered the room and continued his arrangements, not even having to look down as he shifted everything the extra inch or so necessary to make it all fit.

"How are things?" Alfred asked.

"Fine so far," Dick said, keeping his tones hushed despite the considerable distance between the kitchen and parlor. "Keep an eye on this group. They came preemptively. They haven't even started hunting in Gotham, yet. The one in black seems fairly average. Ms. Quinn's really interested in the house elves' heads, and I'm not sure what's going on with the purple one, but keep an eye on him, anyway."

Alfred responded with a curt nod and finished arranging the platter by adding a few springs of mint. Where he got it in the dead of winter, Dick wasn't entirely sure, but he was willing to bet good galleons that there was a greenhouse hidden in the manor somewhere.

"I'm going to check on Jason. If Bruce asks for me, that's where I'll be," Dick clasped Alfred's shoulder briefly. The butler nodded and made to depart before Dick's voice called him back again. "And I—Jason mentioned teabags. Would there be a way to dry the ingredients of a sleeping draught and transport them in teabags? Using the hot water of the cup as a potion base? So we'd brew the sleeping draught in single-person doses, rather than all at once and risking most of it spoiling?"

Alfred seemed to consider this before nodding sharply, something bright in his eyes. "I will certainly look into it, Master Dick."

"Thanks, Alfie," Dick said, and cast him a grin. "I'll see you in a bit, then. Stay safe."

"Only if you do the same, Sir."

Dick left a moment after him, and headed directly for one of the more distant Cave entrances. With the fidelius charm, it was a simple matter to conceal multiple entrances, though the library's was generally the most easily accessible and most frequently used.

From the angle he came in at, at first it appeared as if the Cave were fully abandoned. Not a soul in sight. For a strange, irrational moment, Dick feared for the young, lost muggle who'd come into their house. Then, he swallowed it back down and walked further into the cavern, checking the nooks and crannies for anywhere a sufficiently small and determined muggle to hide in.

He found Jason some minutes later, safely curled in one of the cellars filled with potions and home-canned goods. It was a small square of a room framed by wood and dug into the cave wall, set on all sides with shelves covered in glass jars and vials of all shapes, sizes, and colors. An ever-burning flame illuminated it, and the young body hidden within with his knees to his chin, arms free and eyes down, writing something on a—muggle paper notebook?—on the floor with a muggle pencil. Working on something, apparently, despite being huddled in the bunker, a few tens of meters below people who would kill him if given half a chance.

"What's that?" Dick dared to ask, and Jason did not jump. Dick's approach had not been particularly quiet.

"Nothing," Jason said, before amending, "None of your business."

Dick accepted that and remained standing tall where he was on the outside of the cellar, considering his options with a mindset that hadn't quite receded from dealing with the Snatchers. Now was not the time to start. But there would never be a time to start, really, would there? And at least he could tell himself he had tried his best during a time when it was unlikely they'd be interrupted. "I should apologize again."

"Why?" Jason said, glancing up briefly, his lower lip stuck out in disdain. It reminded Dick hideously of another dark-haired boy filled with anger, but perhaps that helped soothe his nerves.

"Things have been tense between us," Dick laid his hands out flat at his sides, open. "I haven't really helped with that."

Jason snorted and looked back down. "Whatever. If you've go a problem with me, why don't you just go run to your _father_ about it. Don't bother pretending you give a fuck."

There were lots of different things Dick could have responded to in that. In fact, his first gut instinct was to take the paper from beneath Jason's hand and write him a full multi-page essay about everything wrong with that sentence, but they were verbal right now. Dick had very little control over his mouth when it came to verbal problems, so the first thing his mouth blurted out was, "Bruce isn't my father."

Which. Well. At least that hadn't been his instant reaction to accusations while at school. He would've hated for the last three years worth of constantly lying to his classmates to have been a waste.

(Maybe he was less angry at Jason and more angry at Bruce. But that was a Gryffinor thought, and he could kick _that_ one out and laugh at it later.)

His blurting did, at least, have the effect of finally pulling Jason's eyes up to meet him once again, along with a wonderful expression full of the kind of shock that Dick hadn't been able to inspire for a _long_ time. Dick grinned a little too widely in the face of it. Felt weirdly giddy. It all just made Jason's shock morph further into disbelief.

"I'm _not_ ," Dick said again, smiling wider. "You thought I was actually his son?"

"He always—" Jason started, sputtering. He jabbed an accusing finger out. "You look alike!"

"Yeah, well," Dick said, shrugging. "You and I could be brothers, so. Moot point."

It was really nice to just speak a casual sentence for once, even if it was directed towards someone who was halfway steamed.

After a few seconds worth of silence, though, Jason still hadn't managed to form a scathing response, and the only major movement from him was the slow lowering of his jaw.

"You're really taking this kinda weirdly, though," Dick said, his smiling fading somewhat as concern resurfaced. He scratched the side of his nose. "It wasn't… _that_ big a shock, was it? I mean. It's important for the masquerade, but this really shouldn't be such a …big… deal for you, oh."

Jason's jaw clicked shut.

"Oh." The last dredges of the grin and giddiness of the reveal slipped away from him. "Oh. Dads are a big deal to you, aren't they."

Jason didn't actually confirm or deny that, but the pencil thrown at Dick's head—that was a hint. That was hint enough.

Despite the pencil, despite the hint, Dick took a step forward towards the cellar door, hesitant. "Can I? Join you?"

"What, am I gonna be able to stop you or something?" Jason's jaw clenched tight, a hint of white teeth showing through the low light. Dick entered the cellar and sat down beside him. He left a good half meter of distance between them, but sitting put him on roughly the right height level with the kid.

"Sorry," Dick said again, his mind finally settled and still, even in the face of his anger. Because there was still that. That quiet, angry burning that flared up in him when he least expected it, when he thought about a muggle stranger Bruce brought home one day while Dick was comforting traumatized first years, shielding his classmates the best he could, losing sleep, hurting when he woke—but this was different; not a muggle trapped in the wizarding world at war, but another hurt kid.

Another orphan, envious for family.

Dick could handle that. Dick had—he knew that feeling. He knew it just as well as Bruce did. As well as anyone could.

"I'm guessing there's a lot that Bruce's left out, so I—I can explain some, if you're okay with that, Jason."

000

It was two hours before either of them left the storage cellar.

A two hour long talk about orphanages, and parents, and a world that threw away its children the moment there wasn't an adult there to vouch for their worth. A two hour long talk that drew closer to its end every moment they edged nearer to the fatal question of, "how?"

"An accident," said Dick, staring at the cellar wall. "Muggle doctors tried to save them. They failed. A healer might've succeeded, but my father was a muggle, and all the legal proceedings they would've had to go through—well. By the time any healer knew there was a witch to help and got permission to see her, it was too late."

Jason pursed his lips. "…they knew there was a _witch_ to help. But your dad, was—"

"Still alive, at the time," Dick said. Smiling, again. He had to smile when he talked about their deaths aloud. It put people at ease. He had to shrug, and smile, and keep his tone light, because otherwise, people wouldn't know what to do with him, and they'd all trip over themselves trying to figure out how to respond.

Jason was nowhere near smiling. Jason had no questions of how to respond. "They would've let them die because he was a muggle. That's what you're telling me. They'd rather we die."

Dick's smile twitched. Not wavering. But trying hard not to change, even in the face of Jason's slow-bubbling anger, his clenched fists and deeper breathing. A bellows.

"You know," Dick said, Smiling. "Sometimes, I think about that fucking treaty. And I wonder how many kids would still have their parents if we were just allowed to _talk._ Just talk. Openly. About it all."

The bellows that was Jason deflated, his fists unclenching and his glare losing its intensity as he brought his legs back up to his chest and twisted his fingers in the fabric of his pants legs.

"Do you think," he said, in a start. "Would a healer have been able to do anything about addiction?"

And Dick said, so slowly that he sounded in pain, "There's always a chance."

Jason clenched his jaw tight again.

"Dick," he said.

"Yeah, Jason?"

"Do me a favor," Jason said, "and burn that treaty down."

000

 **"breaking it up into more chapters won't mean I write more" I said, lying blatantly to my reflection in the mirror as tears slowly built up in my reflection's eyes. "in fact, I bet this will be one of my shortest fics ever!" I continued, openly weeping.**

 **While writing this chapter, I realized, "you know. Whenever I see an adjective in front of a noun, I assume there are other versions of that noun with variations or alternatives to that adjective. But I've never heard of a 'jay' that wasn't a blue jay." So I googled it. It turns out there are a ton of jays. I like the green jay. I have no need to worry if Dick would have the jay = bird connection, because while the blue jay is North American, there are many other jays in Europe. I am going to refrain commenting on how "Mr. J," is horribly similar to Jason's "Jay" nickname, because, haha, nothing is sacred.**

 **Next time, we're back to Bruce's POV to have Yule with the al Ghuls. I have no idea how people like them would celebrate holidays. Suggestions welcome! Murder highly discouraged.**


End file.
